


Back on the Line

by little0bird



Series: When Jack's Heart Stopped [11]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Olympian Bitty, Pre-PyeongChang 2018 Winter Olympics, USA Hockey, post Sticks and Scones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25586629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: ‘Bits… You’ve got something from USA Hockey…’‘Who?’ Bitty drizzled vinaigrette over the salad.He held the envelope in front of Bitty’s face, shaking it a little to give it emphasis. ‘USA Hockey.’ He tapped his finger next to the logo.Bitty chuckled and turned to the oven. ‘It’s not real. I’ll bet Shitty’s chirping me.’ He bent and opened the oven door, emerging with a baking tray full of chicken and cauliflower. ‘What would USA Hockey want with me?’‘Mind if I open it, bud?’Bitty waved an absentminded hand at him, arranging chicken on a platter with the other. ‘Go ahead.’Jack went to his desk and picked up the letter opener and slit the envelope open. He pulled out a sheet of paper and scanned it. ‘I don’t think this is Shitty chirping.’
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Series: When Jack's Heart Stopped [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1344745
Comments: 107
Kudos: 251





	1. Providence I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [displayheartcode](https://archiveofourown.org/users/displayheartcode/gifts).



‘Hey.’ Jack dropped his bag next to the door. He sniffed experimentally. _Roasting chicken… sage… onions…_ ‘Are you making Thanksgiving dinner in June?’

‘Not quite.’ Bitty smiled and hummed with pleasure as Jack’s lips pressed against the back of his neck. He continued to chop walnuts for the salad. ‘Just chicken with some cauliflower.’ He snagged the salad bowl, then swept the walnuts from the cutting board into the bowl. ‘Made some rolls, too.’ He winked at Jack. ‘ _That_ was for the Thanksgiving dinner series.’

‘Just a couple,’ Jack warned. ‘Nate’s been on my case since you moved in here. He said if he so much as smells pie on my breath on a non-cheat day, there’ll be hell to pay.’ He reached into the cupboard and took down two plates before grabbing cutlery from a drawer. Coming home was now his favorite part of the day. The homey aromas that emanated from the kitchen were only a tiny fraction of it. Bitty’s cooking and baking were decided bonuses, to be sure, but nothing was better than Bitty’s presence that had filled in the empty spaces of the apartment. Jack laid two places on the table, and then picked up the sheaf of mail sitting at the other end and flipped through it. _Card from Emile. Better be a thank-you card for the gift we sent for her kid’s birthday._ Jack set the eye-wateringly pink envelope aside. _Voter registration… Postcard from Rans and Holtzy… Parcel pickup… I didn’t order anything…_ ‘Bits, did you drunk shop on Sur La Table’s website?’

Bitty glanced up from the concoction he had mixed in a old jam jar. A cloud passed over his face. ‘No… I did order a second bowl for the mixer right after graduation, but it was out of stock.’ His face brightened. ‘Did it come in? Took its sweet time.’

Jack waved the card from the post office at him, then gave the next envelope the sort of comical double-take one customarily saw in cartoons. ‘Bits… You’ve got something from USA Hockey…’

‘Who?’ Bitty drizzled vinaigrette over the salad.

He held the envelope in front of Bitty’s face, shaking it a little to give it emphasis. ‘USA Hockey.’ He tapped his finger next to the logo.

Bitty chuckled and turned to the oven. ‘It’s not real. I’ll bet Shitty’s chirping me.’ He bent and opened the oven door, emerging with a baking tray full of chicken and cauliflower. ‘What would USA Hockey want with me?’

‘Mind if I open it, bud?’

Bitty waved an absentminded hand at him, arranging chicken on a platter with the other. ‘Go ahead.’

Jack went to his desk and picked up the letter opener and slit the envelope open. He pulled out a sheet of paper and scanned it. ‘I don’t think this is Shitty chirping.’

Bitty snorted and set the platter and salad bowl on the table. ‘Anyone with a decent printer and spare time can do up something like that.’ He gestured at the table. ‘Come on and eat before it gets cold.’ He poured water into two glasses. ‘Besides, why would USA Hockey bother with _me_?’

Jack strode across the room and slapped the letter onto Bitty’s plate. ‘Because they want you to go out to Colorado Springs to try out for the men’s national team.’

Bitty tossed the letter aside and sat down. ‘See? That’s why it’s only a prank from Shitty. Lardo, Holster, and Ransom are probably too busy to entertain him right now, and he’s bored.’ He forked a piece of chicken on his plate. ‘’Sides, I’ve only played some pickup games since Samwell.’

‘Pickup games with actual NHL players,’ Jack pointed out. ‘And it’s only been a couple of months since your last competitive game.’ He grabbed his phone and thumbed through the contacts until he found Shitty’s number and all but jabbed his finger through the screen to initiate a call. He turned on the speaker and dropped the phone on the table, waiting for Shitty to answer.

‘Is it still adulting when you eat Coco Pops for dinner?’ Shitty asked in lieu of a greeting.

‘Dunno,’ Jack replied. ‘Are you wearing clothes?’

‘C’mon, brah. You know me better than that.’

Bitty sat down and heaped chicken and cauliflower on Jack’s plate. ‘Are you watchin’ cartoons?’

‘Ehhhh. Does _Bojack Horseman_ count?’ They could hear a spoon clatter against the side of the bowl. ‘One of you text me tomorrow, and remind me to stop and pick up another box of Coco Pops. Holtzy’ll lose his shit if he comes home and finds out I ate all his cereal.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Jack took a deep breath. ‘You, ah, didn’t send Bits any mail recently, did you?’

‘Mail?’

‘Posing as USA Hockey?’

Shitty’s guffaws rolled from the phone. ‘Nah. I’d never joke about hockey. And I haven’t replaced my printer since the Haus, and Ransom's printer is a piece of garbage.’

Jack glanced at Bitty. He’d gone completely white. ‘Yeah, okay. Thanks. Come down for dinner tomorrow?’

‘Fuck, yeah. Save me from my own cooking.’

‘Pouring milk on cereal isn’t cooking.’ Bitty had recovered enough to make a feeble attempt at a chirp.

‘See you ‘bout seven, then?’ Jack’s finger hovered over the icon to disconnect the call.

‘Yup.’

He tapped the screen and turned to Bitty, still sitting with a shocked expression on his face. ‘Letter says tryouts start next month. Call Faber in the morning and see if we can’t book some time… Maybe the Falcs’ practice rink. I’ll bet George would be all over that. Probably even put it out on the team's social media.’ Jack pick up his knife and fork. ‘Should also book a flight out to Colorado Springs…’

Bitty pushed his food around his plate. ‘It’s not…’

‘What?’

‘Real… Genuine. It’s a gimmick.’ A line appeared between his brows. ‘What if it’s someone who wants to prove good hockey players can’t be gay? Bring me out, and when I don’t make the cut, use it to say, “See? Gay men don’t belong in hockey.”’ He pushed his plate away. ‘I don’t want to humiliate myself.’

‘Humiliate…? Bitty, you led Samwell to the NCAA Frozen Four. Then _won_ the trophy. That’s something I never did. You belong there.’

‘I’ve got the vlog… The cookbook.’ Bitty pushed his chair back and headed for the kitchen. He yanked open the dishwasher and began to load the detritus of his dinner preparation into it. ‘And if you’re gonna play for your country, shouldn’t you feel proud to do it?’ He gestured toward the windows. ‘With everything goin’ on out there, I don’t necessarily feel proud to have USA on my chest.’ Bitty turned around and leaned against the counter, wiping his hands on a towel.

Jack shoved a cauliflower floret around his plate. ‘Yeah.’

Bitty returned to the table and picked up the letter. He read it, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. ‘I played my last game. I don’t have anything else to prove to myself.’ He slid into Jack’s lap and leaned his forehead against Jack’s.

Jack abandoned his dinner — he could always reheat it — and traced random patterns over Bitty’s back. ‘One of the biggest regrets of my life is I never got to play for Canada,’ he murmured. ‘Was never even asked.’

‘Really?’

Jack nodded. ‘Mmm-hmm. The overdose and dropping of the face of pro hockey didn’t endear me Team Canada in 2010 or 2014. I wouldn’t have handled the pressure well.’ His arms tightened around Bitty. ‘Then.’ He sighed and leaned back. ‘And then the NHL said they wouldn’t let players play in the 2018 Olympics, just when Team Canada might have shown some interest.’

‘But you’re not bitter about it,’ Bitty drawled.

‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, bud. Take it.’

Bitty rubbed a thumb absently over the palm of his opposite hand. Jack knew he was thinking of all the letters and messages he’d received as the first openly gay captain of an NCAA Division I hockey team. How much it had meant for so many to see themselves in him. How much better both he and Jack played once their relationship was out in the open. The smug joy Bits took in outplaying the homophobic goons on an opposing team.

‘Okay.’


	2. Providence II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘This is fantastic,’ George enthused, using her phone to record Bitty passing a puck between Marty and Poots, making small adjustments to his grip on his stick, the direction of his skates, easily switching direction with little warning. Marty swore pungently enough to make Shitty envious when Bitty whipped the puck past him and sent it careening around the boards. ‘The fans already know Bitty from the Cup, and they’ll be just as excited to see him make the Olympics!’ She attached the video to a text message that she then sent to the social media team with instructions to post it to all social media platforms and added a blurb about Bitty trying out for the US Olympic hockey team. She turned and leaned against the boards. ‘Be nice to bring home a medal.’
> 
> ‘Yeah.’ Jack grinned. ‘But no pressure, eh?’

‘This is fantastic,’ George enthused, using her phone to record Bitty passing a puck between Marty and Poots, making small adjustments to his grip on his stick, the direction of his skates, easily switching direction with little warning. Marty swore pungently enough to make Shitty envious when Bitty whipped the puck past him and sent it careening around the boards. ‘The fans already know Bitty from the Cup, and they’ll be just as excited to see him make the Olympics!’ She attached the video to a text message that she then sent to the social media team with instructions to post it to all social media platforms and added a blurb about Bitty trying out for the US Olympic hockey team. She turned and leaned against the boards. ‘Be nice to bring home a medal.’

‘Yeah.’ Jack grinned. ‘But no pressure, eh?’

George laughed. ‘It’s a special kind of pressure. Once in a lifetime for most.’ She whistled under her breath as Bitty darted between Poots and Marty, leaving them to scramble in his wake. ‘It’s almost unbelievable how fast he is.’ She snapped a picture of Bitty drawing his stick back to send the puck into the empty net. 

‘I read an article about Olympic medalists and how they felt about which medal they won for one of my classes at Samwell,’ Jack mused. He had taken a psychology class as an elective, hoping to gain some insight on his then-fraught relationship with his father. As a perfectionist on the ice, even as a child, Jack was always just as disappointed with a bronze medal as he was with a silver. But clearly the study had merit. He did mention it in class, but Samwell wasn’t exactly an athletic powerhouse, so the other athletes in his class argued they were just happy to spend four more years doing something they loved. Winning championships was nice, but not essential.

George nodded. ‘I know that study.’

‘And…?’

I was a lot happier in 2006 than I was in 2002. Because we _won_ the bronze in 2006. But we _lost_ the gold in 2002.’ George sat on the bench, and sent the picture of Bitty to the social media team, with a reminder to set a time to record a Falconer Faceoff with Bitty. ‘It was a much different mood after the medal ceremony in 2006 than 2002. You feel like you don’t deserve the silver, because the scoreboard says you lost.’ George slid her phone into the pocket of her fleece draped over the bench. ‘When I got home from Salt Lake, I shoved the medal into my sock drawer. Way in the back. Took almost a year to even look at it. But Torino? I proudly displayed that hardware like it was a priceless work of art.’

‘Huh.’

‘And I was really young in 2002. I was only twenty years old, still in college. Didn’t realize how lucky I was. There’s hundreds of athletes that you’d never know if you bumped into them on the street at the Olympics who spend years working for one moment in the sun, and nerves, pressure… And their shot for a moment of glory… Poof!’ She lifted her hand and spread her fingers apart in illustration. ‘And some don’t just stop there. They keep trying to come back. Working through torn ACLs, groin muscles, competing on broken bones and stress fractures… you name it.’ George glanced up at the rafters where the Stanley Cup banner rippled gently. ‘And I had that. I had that moment in the sun, and I spent a year being pissed it was the wrong color.’ She patted Jack on the arm. ‘Just needed a change of perspective.’ 

Jack nodded to Bitty, his face screwed up with the effort to slam Poots into the boards. ‘You were a scout. What’re his chances?’

The hesitation on George’s face was fleeting, but Jack felt the bottom of his stomach drop. Perhaps Bitty was right and it was a stunt after all. ‘He’s smaller than most,’ she murmured. ‘Got great hands, visualizes the ice like a pro… Got speed many players wish they had.’ She pulled a whistle from her fleece. ‘The locker room might revolt. A coach could decide it’s not worth the hassle, even if he’s good and makes the difference between a gold or a silver. I’d give him a shot. At least a shot to make the final cut for Pyeongchang.’

George wasn’t blind. Jack’s face tightened perceptibly before smoothing into what she called his “post-game press face.” An almost bland façade that hid his inner turmoil. He’d used it a lot this past year. ‘So this could all be for nothing,’ he muttered. ‘I pushed him to say yes to this.’

’USA Hockey would be foolish to _not_ invite the captain of the Division I NCAA championship team.’ George’s face lit with a sly smile. ‘We’ll just have to make sure that Bitty’s so damn prepared, that what he brings to the ice outweighs everything else.’ She winked at Jack and then stepped onto the ice, the whistle clenched between her teeth. 

Bitty stopped in front of Jack, dusting his sweats with a flurry of snow. ‘Coming? You and me against Poots and Marty.’ He swiped his sweaty forehead over the sleeve of his jersey, then skated away, heading to center ice. 

‘Yeah.’ _Because you deserve this, you short badass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the credit to displayheartcode for "You deserve it you short badass."


	3. Colorado Springs I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, his body stiff, but Coach Hall’s words penetrated the roaring in his ears. Just tryin’ to get a rise outta me… He lifted his chin with a pugnacious grin. ‘We’ll see about that on the ice. See if you can skate as fast as you run your mouth.’ He turned back to Chowder and Whiskey. ‘Although based on how you played during the regular season, my Moomaw skates faster’n you,’ he threw over his shoulder tauntingly. ‘See ya tomorrow.’

‘Hey y’all!’ Bitty held his phone up as he walked through the USOC training center campus. ‘I have some good news and some bad news. Guess, I’ll go with the bad news first. I won’t be adding more videos for the next couple of weeks. But that’s also part of the good news. Seems hockey isn’t done with me yet! I’m in Colorado Springs, tryin’ out for the US men’s Olympic hockey team.’

‘Oh. My. God.’

Bitty looked up. A large man — a d-man if Bitty was any judge — gaped at him. ‘Hi.’

‘You’re Eric-Fucking-Bittle!’

Bitty flashed a grin. ‘It’s what my driver’s license says.’

‘I… Can we…? Holy shit. Listen… my mom made your apple pie for Christmas dinner last year. It was the best damn pie she’s ever made. The one with the maple sugar sprinkled on the top? I gotta tell ya, Mom would lose her shit if she knew you were here.’ He patted his pockets until he emerged with his phone. ‘Don’t mean to intrude, but can I take a selfie with you? My mom religiously watches your vlog. She even made jam last summer.’

‘Uh. Okay.’ Bitty lowered his phone. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Oh! Josh Thompson. University of Alaska, Fairbanks.’

‘Nice to meet you, Josh.’ Bitty stood on his toes so his head was level with Josh’s, smiling gamely, while he snapped the photo.

‘Thanks! Can’t wait to text this to Mom…’

‘You’re welcome.’ Bitty made a mental note to edit that bit out. ‘Right, so, I might go to the Olympics, and if I do, the vlog might have to go on hiatus for a while, but don’t worry! If I do go to Pyeongchang, I’ll be back in February. And I’m still working on my cookbook. ’Til next time, y’all.’ He tapped “stop” with a sigh. It was one thing for people to tweet at him or leave comments on the blog. He could always turn off the phone. But in person… it was a far more mentally taxing endeavour. The instances where someone recognized him in real life were few and far between. Still, it gave him a new appreciation for how Jack handled it. Despite the Stanley Cup, Jack managed to live under the radar in Providence. Mostly because people didn’t really recognize him when he wore streets. Not unless he was wearing those godawful, hideous, highlighter-yellow running shoes. The Falcs had done an entire segment on his devotion to those shoes. But when someone did recognize him, Jack graciously posed for selfies, signed jerseys, and made an effort at a few minutes of small talk. Bitty wasn’t used to in-person gushing. It was much easier to handle online.

‘Bitty?’

He turned at the familiar voice. ‘Chowder?’

Sure enough, Chowder pelted down the sidewalk, beaming with unbridled joy. ‘I can’t believe we get to do this together! It’s going to be so much fun!’ Chowder threw his arms around Bitty, nearly lifting him off his feet. Bitty was thrilled to have the goalie’s exuberant presence during the tryouts. He was also relieved to have at least one person at the trials who would have his back. Pity Chowder would spend most of it between the pipes, but Bitty knew his hockey skills were a hill Chowder would choose to die on, if it came down to it. ‘Whiskey’s here, too.’

Bitty felt a little more of the nervous knot in his belly ease. If only he and Whiskey could play on the same line during the tryouts, they could dazzle a few people. ‘Really? That’s great!’

‘Yeah, he drove up from Phoenix and picked me up at the airport last night.’

The messenger app opened with a quick tap of his thumb. _Chowder & Whiskey here too. _Three dots winked and faded as Jack typed a reply. _Oh, good. I’ll let George know. If all 3 of you make it, you can bet she’ll have a Faceoff segment for that._

‘It would be ‘swasome to play another year with you,’ Chowder enthused. ‘Have you checked in yet?’

'Not yet. I just got here a few minutes ago.'

‘Whiskey and I were heading that way when we saw you.’ They approached a building where Whiskey sat on the steps, sweating in the late July heat.

‘Connor Whisk…’

Whiskey shaded his eyes as he stood up. ‘Hey, Bitty.’ He held out a hand, and Bitty shook it with a sense of formality. He wondered if there would ever be a day when Whiskey would relax enough to be himself around people he actually trusted. ‘I peeked in… That guy from Brown is here. The one you checked into next Tuesday in the finals.’ He paused, and took off his sunglasses, toying with them for a long moment. ‘And so is that guy from Yale… What was his name…? Steadman? The one who called you…’

‘I remember.’ Bitty’s throat grew tight. ‘Always thought he was clever with new insults at every game we played against Yale.’

Chowder looked confused. ‘I thought he stopped after Dex knocked him off his skates?’

Bitty shrugged. ‘He just got quieter is all.’ He opened the doors. ‘Let’s go.’ He remembered to hold his head high. He was the captain of the current NCAA Division I championship team. He had held his own against NHL players. The corner of his mouth turned up in an slightly cocky grin. They walked to a long table, and separated according to their last names. ‘Eric Bittle,’ he told a man behind the A-M sign.

The man ran the tip of a pen down a sheet of paper and scrawled a checkmark next to his name. ‘Here’s your ID badge, schedule, room assignment, room key… Equipment room is down the hall. Dining hall is here…’ He pointed to a building circled in blue highlighter on a map. ‘Use your ID badge to get in. Can get your skates sharpened until eight tonight. Rink opens at seven, but tryouts start promptly at nine. Any questions, you can ask Coach Ramsay. Okay? Okay.’ He peered around Bitty. ‘Next.’

Bitty stepped aside, scrutinizing the schedule, and walked straight into the broad chest of someone who looked vaguely familiar. ‘Eric Bittle?’

‘Yeah…’

‘Alex Fisher, Brown University… You checked the other guy on my line into the Samwell bench during the finals. Right before Samwell won.’

Bitty’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Oh my God...' He gave Alex an abashed grin. ‘Honestly, my memories after the check are a l’il hazy.’

Alex waved it off. ‘It’s hockey, bro. You pack a helluva punch.’

‘Though he be little, he is fierce,’ Whiskey quoted, joining them.

‘You can say that again,’ Alex muttered good-naturedly.

Bitty’s laugh abruptly turned into a surprised squeak, as a sharp elbow jabbed him between the shoulder blades. ‘’Scuse me…’ He turned to find Steadman, the d-man from Yale, glaring at him.

‘You don’t belong here,’ Steadman growled.

Alex reached out and lightly, playfully punched Steadman on the shoulder. ‘Belongs here as much as anyone.’

‘Are you lost?’ Steadman snarked. ‘Women’s team tryouts are in Wisconsin.’

Bitty bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, his body stiff, but Coach Hall’s words penetrated the roaring in his ears. _Just tryin’ to get a rise outta me…_ He lifted his chin with a pugnacious grin. ‘We’ll see about that on the ice. See if you can skate as fast as you run your mouth.’ He turned back to Chowder and Whiskey. ‘Although based on how you played during the regular season, my Moomaw skates faster’n you,’ he threw over his shoulder tauntingly. ‘See ya tomorrow.’

* * *

‘You brought a bucket of pucks with you?’ Whiskey’s incredulous voice echoed off the rafters of the deserted rink.

‘When Jack Laurent Zimmermann packs your gear, he includes a bucket of pucks.’ Bitty dumped the bucket on center ice. He corralled one with his stick, moving it easily down the ice. ‘C’mon, Whiskey…’ He passed the puck to him with barely a glance. They wove around the ice, passing the puck back and forth until Bitty drew his stick back when he noticed Chowder had left a small opening. Almost too small, but as Jack’s Uncle Wayne said, you missed one hundred percent of the shots you didn’t take. The puck squeezed just past Chowder, who threw himself to the side to try and stop it a fraction of a second too late. Whiskey skated toward Bitty with an upraised glove and gave him a fist bump. It wasn’t easy to get a puck past Chowder.

The rhythm of playing with Whiskey soothed Bitty’s jangled nerves The incident with Steadman yesterday bothered him far more than he wanted to admit.

The arena soon filled with the dozens of other players invited to the tryouts. Bitty, Chowder, and Whiskey collected the pucks and returned them to the bucket, then joined the others clustered around the coaches.

Bitty took a deep breath.

Time to prove to the world a gay man in skates didn’t automatically mean figure skating.


	4. Colorado Springs II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack could restrain himself no longer. ‘What did someone say to you?’
> 
> ‘What makes you think someone said something?’
> 
> ‘Because I know you,’ Jack retorted. ‘I’ve heard you laugh, cry, and everything in between on the phone. Bud, I know when you’re upset.’ Jack felt no small measure of guilt. He’d pushed Bitty to do this.
> 
> Bitty heaved a sigh. If Jack closed his eyes, he could see Bitty burrowed in the bed, Señor Bun tucked in the crook of his elbow. ‘It’s not the homophobic goons,’ he finally admitted. ‘I’ve been dealing with that since I was five.’ A rustling noise floated up from the phone’s speaker. ‘It’s when someone says they stood by and did nothing… Like gettin’ punched in the stomach.’ Bitty snuffled, not bothering to try and hide it anymore. ‘How’m I supposed to play with someone, and know he didn’t have enough empathy or compassion to tell someone else to knock it off?’

If Bitty thought Jack had run him ragged in Providence, he was wrong. He’d never been so tired in his life, and that included the years he competed as a figure skater. It took an enormous effort to not slump over his dinner, but Katya’s voice echoed through his head. _Never let them see how it tires you. Make them think you end stronger than you begin._ He couldn’t let the Steadmans of the world see it. He was in no mood to spend the next several days avoiding increased attempts to flatten him into the boards. ‘That seat taken?’ Alex stood on the other side of the table, holding a loaded tray in both hands.

‘No.’

Alex sat down and plowed into his food. The scowl he gave the chicken breast on his plate would have incinerated it. ‘And I thought the food at Brown bordered on inedible.’

Bitty laughed. ‘It’s still better than the food in my high school cafeteria. That was a crime against humanity.’ He poked at his own desiccated piece of chicken and forced down a bite. _Eat more protein._

Alex’s fork chased a pea around his plate. ‘I wanted to…’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I wanted to apologize for Drew…’

‘Who?’ The look Bitty gave him was one of blank incomprehension.

‘Drew. Cole. Number eighty-two.’

Bitty felt his jaw clench. ‘It’s hockey,’ he said woodenly.

‘What you did to him is hockey. What he did…’ Alex stared down at his plate and picked up a roll that he tore in half, and then again. ‘It wasn’t right.’

Bitty could only stare at him. Chowder and Whiskey plopped trays on either side of the table. Initially oblivious to the obvious tension, they babbled incoherently to Bitty’s ears. Chowder let out a muffled yelp. Whiskey must have kicked him under the table when he noticed the visible strain on Bitty’s face. ‘No. It wasn’t,’ Bitty finally managed.

Alex took a sip of water. ‘What I did was worse.’

‘You never deliberately targeted me. Or called me a little girl. Or a fag. Or…’

‘I didn’t stop him,’ Alex interrupted. ‘I didn’t stand up to him. Might as well’ve called you filthy names myself.’ He looked away. ‘We were playing so good. And Drew… He wasn’t the captain or an alternate, but he had a way of getting people to follow his lead. I didn’t wanna rock the boat. Coach woulda benched me for causing problems in the locker room.’ He squashed a chunk of his mutilated roll under his thumb. ‘And I wanted to win the title. So I let it slide.’

‘I see.’

‘And I want to apologize for that. I spent a lot of time after that game thinking about it.’

The room blurred, and a lump formed in Bitty’s throat. He nodded, his eyes fixed on his tightly laced fingers. No longer hungry, he shoved his chair back and picked up the tray with his half-eaten dinner. ‘Gonna go study the playbook,’ he muttered, striding toward a rack filled with trays. He shoved his into an empty slot, and left the dining hall.

* * *

‘Bitty?’ Chowder knocked on the partially-open door of Bitty’s room.

‘Come on in…’ Bitty glanced up from the binder on his lap.

Chowder and Whiskey tumbled into the room, their hands full of take-out containers. ‘You didn’t finish your dinner, so we brought you some food,’ Whiskey explained, setting a container on the bed, followed by a couple of cartons of milk. He perched on the foot. ‘You okay?’

No. He wasn’t. But now wasn’t the time. ‘Yeah,’ he lied.

Chowder plopped next to Bitty and bumped their shoulders together. ‘I brought you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not as good as yours though.’

Bitty’s stomach rumbled, so he pulled the container toward him and flipped back the lid. A napkin covered the bread with a note scrawled on it. _SMH #1_. Underneath was a sketch of a shark. Bitty felt a smile curve his mouth. ‘Nice note, Chowder.’

‘You always talked about how your mom would put notes with your sandwich, so…’ Chowder shrugged, cheeks turning pink. ‘I promised my mom I would call her after dinner. See you later.’ He bounced off the bed and jogged from the room, leaving Bitty and Whiskey alone.

‘I broke up with my girlfriend,’ Whiskey blurted.

Bitty paused, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. ’Say what now?’

‘Well, _we_ broke up with each other.’ Whiskey rubbed the back of his neck. ‘We went out after I got home and had a really long talk and realized the long distance thing wasn’t working out.’ He opened one of the other containers and pulled out a carrot stick that he began to munch absently. ‘When I said I wasn’t like you… I don’t only like men…’

‘Oh. Okay.’ Bitty frowned in bemusement for a moment before he blurted a line from a tv show he’d recently discovered. ‘You like the wine, not the label.’

Whiskey blinked. ‘I’m sorry…?’

‘What the wine calls itself isn’t important… you just like the wine.’ He took a bite of his sandwich. ‘I like red wine,’ he said around the peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth, trying to remember the way the show explained it. ‘You also like red wine. And you like white wine. And anything in between…?’

Whiskey crunched noisily on the carrot for a long moment before he nodded. ‘Something like that.’ He hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I like Reyna a lot. I was as attracted to her as I am to Chad.’ His face turned a brilliant red. ‘I don’t need everyone to know… My parents… They wouldn’t…’ Whiskey’s hands clenched into fists until his knuckles turned white. ‘I don’t want to deal with what you’ve had to since last June...’ He fiddled with the half-eaten carrot. ‘I read what opposing team members said to Jack. And then to see that asshole yesterday.’ He sighed and took another bite of the carrot. ‘I’m not there yet.’

Bitty reached for a carton of milk and opened it. ‘No one has the right to insist you come out on their terms,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s nobody’s business but yours.’ _No wonder he never wanted to talk about it._ Bitty sipped the milk trying to figure out how to say the next part. ‘I never said the words, “I’m gay” to anyone until I said them to Shitty my freshman year. Rans and Holtzy kept tryin’ to set me up with girls for Winter Screw, and I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I’d never even said it out loud to myself until I said it to Shitty, and I knew I was gay since I was… Five, I guess? If there’s ever a moment for a “you do you” attitude, Connor, it’s how and when you come out.’

Whiskey gave Bitty a single nod. ‘’Kay…’ He stood up and gestured at the containers. ‘You better eat that or I’m gonna send a text out on the SMH chat…’ He backed away toward the door. ‘And you _know_ Jack will spam the chat so he can yell at you to take care of yourself…’

‘Not funny, Connor!’

The only reply was the ghost of a chuckle floating into the room from the hallway.

* * *

Some Beyoncé song blared from his phone. Jack jerked, patting blindly for it on his nightstand. He picked it up and squinted at the bright screen. The display showed a picture of Bitty sitting on the front porch of the Haus, completely unaware Jack had just snapped a candid photo of him. He tapped the speaker option. ‘Hey, bud.’

‘Hey, sweetpea…’

Jack frowned at the phone in his hand. ‘You okay?’ It was hard to tell based on Bitty’s voice alone. He was a master at masking his feelings when he wanted. Choosing an audio call meant he didn’t want Jack to see his face.

‘Just… tired.’ Jack didn’t miss the slight hitch in Bitty’s voice. ‘It was a long day.’

Jack frowned. A long day could mean any number of things from a hard day on the ice to a cascade of homophobic remarks. They’d dealt with their fair share of the latter the past year. Some days it was much easier to let it roll off their backs than others. Obviously Bitty didn’t want to elaborate any further, or else he would have kept talking. When he wanted to unload, he could talk until his phone battery died. The prolonged quiet was definitely as unnerving as it was telling. Jack sat up and pushed the pillows behind his back. _Okay… Keep it light…_ ‘Mom and Papa came in for a visit. Took ‘em to Jerry’s yesterday for brunch. Met Shits, Lardo, Rans, and Holtzy.’

‘Yeah?’ Bitty’s voice was muffled and tremulous. Jack could hear a distant sniffle. ‘They like it?’

‘Papa and Rans spent a good fifteen minutes theorizing why Jerry’s coffee is so good.’ Jack chortled softly. ‘Papa bought two pounds of beans to take home. For science.’

‘Oh, of course. Science.’ A watery laugh buzzed through Jack’s phone.

‘Mom really liked the whoopee pies. Got ‘em because I said you liked ‘em.’

‘Your mama’s got good taste,’ Bitty said with only a hint of his usual playfulness.

Jack could restrain himself no longer. ‘What did someone say to you?’

‘What makes you think someone said something?’

‘Because I know you,’ Jack retorted. ‘I’ve heard you laugh, cry, and everything in between on the phone. Bud, I know when you’re upset.’ Jack felt no small measure of guilt. He’d pushed Bitty to do this.

Bitty heaved a sigh. If Jack closed his eyes, he could see Bitty burrowed in the bed, Señor Bun tucked in the crook of his elbow. ‘It’s not the homophobic goons,’ he finally admitted. ‘I’ve been dealing with that since I was five.’ A rustling noise floated up from the phone’s speaker. ‘It’s when someone says they stood by and did nothing… Like gettin’ punched in the stomach.’ Bitty snuffled, not bothering to try and hide it anymore. ‘How’m I supposed to play with someone, and know he didn’t have enough empathy or compassion to tell someone else to knock it off?’

‘Bits…’ Jack made a helpless gesture.

He heard Bitty take a deep breath. The sort he took before facing an undesirable task. The kind of breath he used to steel himself before a game. The breath that switched on the hard light in Bitty’s eyes. The signal that he wasn’t about to back down from a challenge. ‘I’ll do it, though. For Whiskey. And that one kid in North Dakota who send me a letter on pages he ripped from a spiral notebook that had his algebra notes on the back. And the football player in Utah…’

 _‘Et pour toi?’_ Jack had unconsciously switched to French, as he had so often done during his therapy sessions in rehab. Deeply emotional moments always seemed to come easier to him in French.

 _‘Et pour moi.’_ Bitty groaned deprecatingly. ‘I have got to work on my accent.’

Jack rolled over in the bed, and laid his hand on Bitty’s pillow. ‘You should FaceTime Papa. He’s got a lot more patience than I do.’

‘Won’t get distracted by the view of my ass in booty shorts you mean,’ Bitty quipped.

‘God, I hope not.’ Jack yawned and glanced at the time on his phone. It was close to eleven in Colorado Springs. ‘You should get some sleep, bud.’

‘Yeah…’ Bitty’s voice caught on a yawn. They were contagious. ‘Jack?’

_‘Ouais?’_

‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’

‘G’night, sweetpea…’

‘Night, bud.’

* * *

Bitty pulled his ring off and threaded it onto a chain that he slipped over his head and tucked into his shirt. He flattened his palm over it for a moment, as if it were a talisman. _It’s just hockey_ , he told himself. _You don’t have anything to lose._ He shook himself, then he proceeded to put on the rest of his gear, and grabbed his stick with a small smirk. It had taken a late night on on his laptop while Jack slept, but he’d tracked down enough tape to last the entire week in the colors that made the Pride flag. It was Pride month after all. _  
_

* * *

‘Bittle, Whisk… Get on the line!’ Coach Ramsay yelled. Bitty and Whiskey hopped over the boards and joined the play in progress. Bitty intercepted the puck and threw a quick glance over his shoulder at Whiskey. Without looking, he adjusted the angle of his stick and passed the puck to Whiskey, dodging an opposing player, calling on all his figure skating skills as he shifted from one edge of his skates to the other. The puck came flying across the ice, and Bitty caught it, taking it around the net, to let Whiskey find a good position. _There_. Before anyone could blink, he sent the puck back to Whiskey, then the buzzer brayed signaling a goal. Coach Ramsay whistled, gesturing for Bitty and Whiskey to come back to the bench. ‘Run that again,’ he ordered.

Whiskey glanced at Bitty and they merely nodded at one another. They ran the play again, making small alterations based on defensemen positions. This time, Bitty took the shot. It ricocheted off the crossbar and fell just behind Chowder’s shoulder.

_Bwwwaaaahhhhhhh!_

Bitty skated toward Whiskey with an upraised glove. They bumped their knuckles, exchanging quick grins. Bitty then made his way to Chowder, whose scowl had deepened after the second goal. ‘C’mon, Chowder. It’s just a scrim. Just like the Pond. Shake it off, okay?’ Chowder nodded and grabbed his water bottle. A whistle blew, and Bitty glanced back. Coach Ramsay gestured for him to return to the bench. ‘You got this!’ He and Chowder bumped their gloves together before he returned to the bench.

* * *

 _All locker rooms are alike, but to this boy, every locker room is full of its own pitfalls_ , Bitty mused, ducking under the shower. He felt inordinately pleased with himself. His English lit professor would have been proud of the reference. The Samwell locker room had been an exception. Bitty found himself dredging up old habits from high school. He claimed the stall where he was partially blocked from view for the rest of the team. He kept his eyes locked on the tile directly in front of him while he showered, or on his toes when he walked out of the shower. It felt like he’d stuffed himself back into the closet, which was the last thing he wanted. He’d worked too hard to normalize his sexuality in an infamously homophobic sport for too long. The thought had crossed his mind more than once that twisting himself into knots so he didn’t create _distractions_ in the locker room wasn’t worth it. He was far from most people’s idea of a typical hockey player, and judging by the rest of the players at the tryout, they were going for guys built like Jack and Holtzy. Bitty heaved an internal sigh and squirted a dollop of shampoo into his waiting palm.

He quickly washed his hair and body, then darted to the stack of towels just outside the entrance to the showers and grabbed one, wrapping it around his waist. He dressed and sat in his stall, rubbing the damp towel over his hair, waiting for Chowder and Whiskey so they could go eat dinner.

‘Hey, Bittle!’ Coach Tyler, an assistant, called into the locker room. ‘Coach Ramsay wants to see you!’

 _Crap…_ There was nothing worse than getting called into the coach’s office after a practice. It sent ice water through his veins. If Coach wanted to speak you privately in his office, it didn’t usually signify anything good. It was what Coach Murray and Hall did when he struggled on the ice after that hip check his first year. His stomach sank to his toes as he trudged into the hallway. He could already imagine calling Jack to tell him that USA Hockey decided to cut him before the week was out.

The door to Coach Ramsay’s office was open, and he spoke on his phone with his back to the door. Bitty knocked softly and stood, hovering while Coach Ramsay finished his conversation. The coach swiveled around in his chair and waved Bitty into the office and motioned to a chair in front of the desk. Bitty perched on the edge of the seat, trying not to fidget. To cover some of his nervousness, Bitty slipped the chain over his head and unfastened it so he could remove his ring. He fiddled with it, peering at the inside. _JLZ+ERB_. He slid the ring onto his finger, thinking of Jack’s proposal. Their relationship started with hockey. It didn’t end with hockey. So what if he got cut? Jack would love him no matter what. So would his parents. So would Bob and Alicia. Shitty, Lardo, Rans, Holtzy, Chowder, Dex, Nursey… As much as he secretly wanted to make the team, Bitty knew if he didn’t, it wasn’t going to mean the end of the world. He sat up a little straighter when Coach Ramsay hung up the phone.

‘I like how you gave Chow that pep talk after you and Whisk scored on him.’

‘Th-thank you?’

‘Got his head back into the game. Shows leadership.’

Bitty grinned. ‘I should hope so. It’s what any good captain would do.’

‘It’s what a good _teammate_ would do. Can’t win if we’re not playing as a team.’ Coach Ramsay toyed with a pen, then looked straight at Bitty. ‘Can you handle the pressure of being an openly gay hockey player on a national scale?’

‘It’s who I am,’ Bitty replied evenly. ‘I can’t hide it and, frankly, I don’t want to.’

‘That doesn’t tell me that you can handle it,’ Coach Ramsay pointed out, doodling on his notepad.

Bitty snorted. ‘With all due respect, Coach, I outed myself as the first openly gay captain of a men’s NCAA hockey team the moment I kissed my boyfriend on center ice after his team won the Stanley Cup. That meant every move I made got scrutinized and dissected by anyone and everyone who wanted to prove I didn’t belong on the ice. People who didn’t know the difference between a red line and a blue line watched the Frozen Four. ESP-fucking-N did a piece on me. I stay off the sports webpages and never read the comments. I’m on the ice to play hockey. The fact that I can show some twelve-year old in Colorado that he can be gay and be a good hockey player is icing on the cake.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘I don’t lose my temper on the ice because some bigoted jerk thinks it’s fun to call me filthy names.’

That seemed to mollify Coach Ramsay, because he nodded and put the pen down. ‘All right, then.’ He jerked his head toward the door. ‘Go on. Get some rest.’

‘Night, Coach.’ Bitty slid off the chair and left the cramped office, feeling as though he had passed some sort of test. What it meant, he didn’t have the slightest guess. Coach Ramsay never let his stoic façade crack in front of the players. ‘Just keep playing hockey, Bittle,’ he muttered to himself.

* * *

Jack prowled the baggage claim area of Boston Logan. The trials ended yesterday, but Bitty had absolutely refused to talk about the outcome, which made Jack think he hadn’t made it. He completed another lap, and tossed his empty coffee cup into the recycling bin. Bitty’s flight was two hours late, thanks to a sudden thunderstorm in Houston that kept his flight grounded until it had passed.

He joined the throng studying the arrivals board and noted with an overwhelming sense of relief that the plane had landed. He checked his watch, trying to estimate how long it would take to collect Bitty’s luggage. With any luck, they could be in the car within thirty minutes and on their way to Providence.

‘Jack!’

He twisted toward the sound of Bitty’s voice. He looked tired and worn out, hair mussed, with the unmistakably wan expression of one who had been traveling all day. ‘Bits!’ Jack swept him into his arms, lifting him off his feet. ‘I’m sorry about all the transfers, bud. I couldn’t get a direct flight from Colorado Springs…’

Bitty hugged him hard. ’Jack Zimmermann, that is the most Canadian thing I think you’ve ever said.’ He kissed Jack hungrily. ‘It was fine.’

‘Missed you,’ Jack murmured into Bitty’s ear. He let Bitty slide to the floor and took his messenger bag, then led him to the carousel assigned to his flight.

‘Samwell will be well represented on Team USA,’ Bitty commented.

‘Oh?’ Jack tried not to sound too hopeful.

‘Chowder and Whisk made it. Well, they gotta cut five more players, but Whisk is as good as you were at his age, and Chowder…’

‘Call him a sieve, and he’ll reel off a series of shutouts.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well.’ Jack clutched the strap of the bag. ’Good for them.’

‘Jack…?’ Bitty laid a hand over the one wrapped around the strap.

 _‘Ouais?’_ He looked up.

Bitty’s face lit up in a blazing smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrrgh. I was so out of it when I posted this I forgot a few things...
> 
> The wine analogy Bitty uses comes from the 10th episode of season 1 of Schitt's Creek, where David explains his sexuality to Stevie using wine. It's such a good analogy. Daniel Levy, the creator, has talked about how people wrote to the show and said they used it to come out to their families. 
> 
> I absolutely think Jack and Bitty would be all over Schitt's Creek.


	5. Providence III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘It feels like charity.’
> 
> Jack picked up Bitty’s left hand, thumb stroking over the ring he’d placed on his finger just over a month ago. ‘It’s not.’ He pressed a kiss to the palm of Bitty’s hand. ‘I know it feels that way, but just consider me a sponsor of the Olympic dreams of Eric Richard Bittle. Like Tide or Coke. I’m not even paying the bulk of it. George got the Falcs to kick in funding for you, Chowder, and Whiskey. Local interest story and all.’

Jack pulled Bitty against his chest, inhaling the scent of the skin on the back of his neck. Always vanilla and cinnamon. After tomorrow, it could be months before they could have another moment like this. He reached down and set a gaily wrapped box on Bitty’s knees.

‘What is this?’ Bitty hefted a slim box in his hands.

‘A gift.’ Jack restrained himself from yanking it from Bitty’s hands and ripping the shiny red paper off.

Bitty flicked the profusion of curly white ribbon. ‘I can see that.’ He held the box to his chest. ‘Animal, vegetable, or mineral?’

‘I, uh…’ Jack groped for the correct answer. ‘Dunno. Mineral, I guess…?’ He tousled the curly ribbons with his fingertips. ‘Just open the damn box before everyone comes over.’

Bitty gazed at him with an upraised brow. ‘Everyone? Who is everyone?’

Jack could have smacked himself. He had meant it to be a surprise. ‘I invited the boys over for a party,’ he muttered evasively, knowing Bitty would assume “the boys” to mean Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster. Just a small Samwell hockey gathering with pizza and beer. Which is what he’d initially intended, but then Tater overheard his phone call to Lardo and asked to come. Then Poots and Snowy clamored to come, too. Then Marty, Thirdy, and Guy. And George. Of course they all planned to bring wives or girlfriends, or in George’s case, her husband. Then Jack had the brilliant idea to offer to fly in Suzanne and Rick from Madison as a surprise. They demurred, of course, but Jack insisted. And if Suzanne and Rick were going to be there, then Alicia and Bob should be, as well. Then that meant a proper dinner, so he’d roped Lardo, Shitty, Ransom, and Holster into picking up food from Bitty’s favorite restaurant in Providence. Gabby and Marty had volunteered to bring a cake. That had been Gabby’s idea. She insisted Bitty shouldn’t bake for his own party, even though for Bitty, it wasn’t a party unless he baked something. Chances were very good that Bitty would bake anyway, and send everyone home with a dozen mini pies as a thank you gift. He glanced at his watch and tapped the box. They would descend on them soon. ‘C’mon, Bits. Open it.’

Bitty carefully wriggled the ribbon off the box and picked at the tape until he could spread the paper apart. ‘Jack,’ he breathed. ‘I can’t…’ He gazed at an iPad Pro with all the accessories. ‘It’s too much.’

‘You can use it to work on your cookbook,’ Jack cajoled. ‘You’ll want something to occupy yourself when you’re not on the ice. Take your mind off hockey. Better than the phone for FaceTiming, eh?’ He slipped a hand over Bitty’s hip, skimming over the skin just below the hem of his shorts, then slid upward, a promise for their own private farewell. _Don’t start something you can’t finish, Zimmermann_ , he told himself. It would be just his luck to be on his knees, with Bitty’s dick in his mouth and legs draped over his shoulders when everyone showed up.

‘Mr. Zimmermann!’ Bitty pretended to be shocked, but laughter bubbled under the surface. ‘You naughty boy.’

Jack chuckled and nuzzled the back of Bitty’s neck. ‘You can record your vlog on it.’

‘It’s so much money…’ Bitty clamped his lips together, squirming. ‘On top of everything else,’ he muttered. His parents weren’t exactly struggling, but they certainly didn’t have a great deal of disposable wealth. Figure skating had been an expensive endeavor, and hockey hadn’t been cheap in the beginning. They’d barely been able to afford what his scholarship at Samwell didn’t cover without resorting to student loans. He’d felt an immeasurable amount of relief when Johnson gave him his dibs. The Haus was much less expensive than the dorms.

‘Hey, what’s mine is yours, bud.’ Jack tilted Bitty’s head back and kissed him.

Bitty pulled away and turned around. ‘You’re already helping out with housing in Lake Placid…’

‘You’re sharing an apartment with Chowder and Whiskey.’ Jack attempted a grin. ‘Haus 3.0.’ The frown still darkened Bitty’s face. ‘I mean it. I don’t want you to worry about anything except hockey.’ Jack had plenty of money. Even as a Samwell student. Not that he’d ever advertised it. His car had been modest, serviceable, and secondhand. He didn’t care about clothes and wore them until they fell apart. Bob and Alicia had been careful with their money, and had set up a trust fund for Jack when he was born. His salary from the Falcs was more than enough to support them both. Jack did not collect flashy jewelry, watches or designer clothes and shoes, or buy snazzy sports cars. The furniture in the apartment was comfortable and well-made, but not extravagant. His biggest splurges his first year with the Falcs were, in fact, the apartment, which was an investment anyway, and an upgraded, but still sensible, new car. His parents had drilled frugality into him from a young age.

Bitty set the iPad box on the coffee table. ‘It feels like charity.’

Jack picked up Bitty’s left hand, thumb stroking over the ring he’d placed on his finger just over a month ago. ‘It’s not.’ He pressed a kiss to the palm of Bitty’s hand. ‘I know it feels that way, but just consider me a sponsor of the Olympic dreams of Eric Richard Bittle. Like Tide or Coke. I’m not even paying the bulk of it. George got the Falcs to kick in funding for you, Chowder, and Whiskey. Local interest story and all.’

‘Would you be disappointed if I don’t make the final cut for the team? Or if I do, come home without a medal?’

‘Course not. Only way you can disappoint me, bud, is if you don’t go out there and play like I know you can.’

‘BRAHS!’ Shitty burst through the door, followed more slowly by Lardo, Holster, and Ransom. He deposited an aluminum tray on the kitchen island, and then ran through the apartment and vaulted onto the couch between Bitty and Jack. He grabbed Bitty by the shoulders. ‘You’re going to the fucking Olympics!’

‘It’s just training,’ Bitty protested. ‘They won’t finalize the team for months.’

Shitty rummaged in his bag and thrust a Thermos into Bitty’s hands, then doled out red Solo cups. He took the Thermos back and poured a dollop of liquid into every cup. ‘The motherfucking Olympics deserves a motherfucking toast!’ Shitty proclaimed as if he hadn’t heard a word Bitty said. ‘And as a Samwell hockey alum, that can only mean…’

‘Tub juice,’ Lardo drawled. She tapped her cup against Bitty’s. ‘He’s been working on it for days.’

Shitty stood on the couch and lifted his cup high into the air. ‘To Bitty! Show the entire goddamn world what Samwell-fucking-Hockey is all about!’ He downed the contents of his cup, then slid back down and leaned so close to Bitty their noses touched. ‘You _deserve_ it, you short, motherfucking badass.’

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I have zero knowledge of how USA Hockey does this sort of thing, but hey, this is fic, so for my purposes, I've decided to base it off what was depicted int he 2004 film, Miracle.


End file.
